I slink off my chair, leaving my second—half-drunk—pint and without giving a look back over my shoulder, even though part of me really,reallywants to. I make my way out into the car park of the Anchor, but my da’s boxy old beast, a well-loved Defender and one of the few things I got after he died, is nowhere to be seen.
I kick an imaginary pebble as I make my way through the small, rectangular car park. Stupid. Stupid fucking idiot. So much for keeping your head down, Robert. Dumbass.
I walked to the Anchor because I planned to have a couple of pints, and I’d never get behind the wheel while compromised. What I hadn’t planned, was the physical exertion of banging someone in the bathroom, and my leg is already aching. I’m not sure I could make it home around the corner to Bay Road if I tried.
Leaning against the cobbled side of the pub provides momentary relief, but footsteps to my right tell me I’m not alone. “Robert?” Matt Murphy is walking toward me, a cautious smile on his face.
“Alright, Matt?” I try to inject a friendly tone into my words, but we don’t know each other, only our names. And we both know the situation is anything but light. From the protective glint in his eyes, it’s anything but friendly, too.
“Rhiannon wanted me to get your number for her so you could talk in private about…” He reaches up and palms the back of his neck, shifting his weight like he’s uncomfortable.
Makes two of us, buddy. “Sure thing.” I put my number in Matty’s phone, and he gives me Rhiannon’s. She’s not wrong to want to get ahead of this, to get our story straight in case one of us is cornered by a reporter, or a nosy social media blogger.We don’t want to get caught in conflicting lies or throw any additional kindling onto this fire.
He gives me a firm nod, takes his phone back, and heads back inside without another word. In the minute or so it takes for him to walk indoors, a familiar black Honda Civic pulls up to the curb on Fleet Street and a shrill honk pierces the air. My sister, Emma, opens the passenger window. “Get in, knobhead. Before you end up on the six o’clock news.”
CHAPTER 9
Robert
It’s a short drive around the corner to Bay Road. My house is one of the older, bigger ones toward the end, nearest to the water. It’s not the world’s biggest house, but being so close to the sea fuels a piece of my soul that hates being confined to one place.
I thought when I moved abroad, that’s where I’d stay.
If I wasn’t happy in one place, I’d pick up my notebook and laptop and simply move somewhere new. But, as it turns out, no amount of distance can help you outrun yourself because no matter how far you go, you’re always still right there.
As a foreign correspondent for a major media outlet, the world was my oyster because humans are our own worst enemies, with no lack of conflict and crisis for me to write about.
After my uni days, I thought that not getting too close would keep people safe, being an observer rather than a participant guaranteed I couldn’t fuck things up all over again.
Except… there I was.
Five years ago, one of my sources was compromisedbecause of my ostentatious reporting. A local translator was abducted and killed after my publication exposed coordinates they thought were safe.
Everyone said it wasn’t my fault. My article had been run up the flagpole and deemed an excellent piece of journalism by the higher-ups, none of the editing team or publication team suggested any changes I didn’t incorporate. But that doesn’t dull the ache of responsibility that nestled its way into a corner of my chest.
It doesn’t bring that translator back from the dead, either.
I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t live with the fact that every time I tell the truth, someone gets hurt. The irony is, I ran home, took a substantial pay cut and a small-town sports journalism job to “play it safe,” telling myself I’m doing honest work that couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. And yet, from the pained look on Rhiannon’s face at the bar, it seems I’ve only gone and done it again.
My silence cost a friend’s life in uni, so I vowed to find my voice. Yet finding it hasn’t redeemed me from that mistake—it’s cost another life.
It seems in my chosen line of work, proximity kills.
Even when it’s for the greater good, exposing people who push drugs on young athletes… it backfires. My eagerness to unearth the truth surrounding Rhiannon’s father has clearly left a mark on her.
I came home wanting peace, thinking I’d find it right here by the water.
On my darkest of days, I’d drag myself out to the sea and think about throwing myself at the mercy of the waves. And on my best days, I walk the coastal path, take in the salty sea air, feel the wind on my face, and listen to the crash of the water against the rocky shore.
“Do you need me to get crutches?” Emma gives me seriousside-eye as she brings the car to a stop outside my house, drawing me out of my mental spiral.
“I’m not that bad.”
“I dunno, Rob. You fucked some girl in the toilet after walking to The Rusty Anchor. When was the last time you did that level of… exercise?”
Straight as a rod is my sister, and she sometimes seems to forget that other than the fact I’m short half a leg, I’m actually a pretty fit grown-ass man. I’m four years older than her, and yet she pecks at me like a mother hen.
“You know I box a couple of times a week in the club, right?” The staccato rhythm of my headache makes me pinch the bridge of my nose.
